Shit In The Pants, Or An Existentialist Journey Into An Untimely Tragedy Involving My Loose Bowels

“Shit in the Pants,” from “Fantasies and Nightmares,” by Archibald E. Sauer.

Right up there with the FEARS of (1) speaking in public and (2) death is the fear of (3) losing control of your bowels in public. A friend once told me, “When I get to the time of my life when I can't get to the bathroom on time, anymore, that will be a good time to consider suicide. At that point, life would not be worth living.”

He might have qualified his statement by telling us if he was referring to consistent, regular, every day occurrences, or merely intermittent and random episodes.

Within the last eight-year period, I have suffered this experience two times. And, yes, when this happens, suicide seems like a pleasant alternative.

The first time, as bad as it was--and it was bad--occurred in the middle of the night in a nearly deserted truck terminal eight years ago. There were people around, but no one pays any attention to anyone else at that time of day. To explain why this happened is really not of any consequence. No matter what I say, you will never be persuaded to believe that what “happened to me” is excusable, understandable, or justifiable. You'll never think of me the same after reading this, but since the probability is high, that you seldom think about me anyway, what does it matter?

The second time this “happened to me” occurred just a few months ago. This time was far worse than the first time, because it occurred in broad daylight, in front of several people. AND, I just so happened to have been out in public with woman that I just met online. Even though I had revealed to her some personal information that slips me into the “odd” category, she was still interested in me and actually offered to help me pursue my goals. She was helping me with a specialized type of shopping, and I was very delighted with the results we were getting.

I hadn't been feeling well but I didn't want to cancel my date with this woman because I felt so far behind in my project, the one she was going to help me with. I thought, “No more delays," and so instead of rescheduling the appointment for another time, and against better judgement, I met her as arranged.

It's possible my emotional excitement during our shopping spree could have something to do with this disaster, but obviously there are psychological factors involved which I do not fully comprehend or know how to explain (I was in the twelfth house Sun, the house of self undoing).

I was in the dressing room when I felt an unusually intense and unfamiliar sensation that indicated that I needed to find a bathroom...

...fast.

When I approached the sales lady to ask her where the bathroom was, she said, “We don't have public bathrooms. You'll to have to use
one at one of the stores next door.” There was no time to argue with her because her statement sounded final, so rather than insisting to use their bathroom, I exited the building and chose to go right, toward a nearby Ross.

In haste, as I walked frantically toward Ross, begging God to help me (and I'm an agnostic,mind you), a glob of soft shit popped into my pants. But this was not the end.

The end is never the end.

Both my bowels and I had a ways to go yet. I still had no bathroom in sight, and my bowels weren't completely cleared. Like a madman, I entered the store, asking the first person I saw, “Where is the bathroom??!" He directed me to the back of the store, but as I hastened down the center isle, I was unable to hold back the force of peristaltic action. Out of my ass, down my legs, onto the floor it went: a gooey stream of shit. It covered my shoes and splattered the floor. Directly in front of four people waiting to try on clothing. It was a "blasting bowel movement."

When that "happens to you," your ego goes to a little-known place of shame and humiliation, a place that “normal people” will never discuss.

And the worst part was yet to come. Hoping no one would follow me, I entered the bathroom. Fearing and dreading the possibility that someone would walk in on me.

My similar experience eight years before benefited me. This time, I was able to minimize the mess in this public bathroom that I was about to make; however, during this second occurrence my feces was very loose, and both my pant legs were soiled. It was bad. It was the type of experience that wipes out every other thought in your mind. As you clean shit out of your pants and off the floor, you are living second to second, fully in the present moment. Nothing else matters. My life passed before my eyes.

I learned something about feces while trying to clean up after myself. The first time, I had been faced with crap all over the toilet bowl, on the walls, in the sink in the shower. This was a real-life, waking, nightmare. Never having changed a diaper in my life (up till then), for the first time in my life, I understood why it's called SHIT. It smears, it clings, it flies, it slides, and it's nearly impossible to wipe off, especially when you are in a state of panic. Wiping only made things worse, spreading the filth. I had no cleaning supplies at my disposal save for toilet paper and paper towels. The first time, I left the bathroom a true disaster area. This second time, I had some idea as how to contain the problem and therefore cleanup was easier (even though my pants were totally fucked up). And there still was a disgusting mess to clean off the floor and out of the sink.

As I hurriedly attempted to clean up well enough to leave
the bathroom, I was thinking about the woman I was with. I had just met her. she was unusually nice and potentially a good friend, and the first impression she was to get of me was of someone hapless and pathetic. That's the kind of thing that will ruin your day, your week, your month, and maybe even your fear. “The sum of all possible fears.” Why is this happening?

It may be possible in some way to extract humor from this experience, but I still haven't figured out how to do that. Let me say just this: even if tragedy strikes, your life will go on.

Lesson learned? What am I supposed to learn from this? I do not know.

Taking a dump in your pants could be compared in some lesser way to a failed suicide attempt. Afterwords you”ll wonder, "What the fuck just happened? Am I living under a curse? Can't I do anything right? Why? Tell me. Tell me why, someone, did this just happen?"

I never saw the woman again. I called her once but could tell
by the sound of her voice that she was no longer interested in my company. So there you have it. I still don't know what--if anything--I learned from this experience. How does something like
this fit in with the grand design of my life overall? Beats me.

Seeking only positive experiences and preserving only positive memories is something that for me; is impossible to do. My life has been an endless stream of obstacles and mishaps and insults that no one would believe, understand, or even want to know about.

“Keep only pure thoughts in your mind” and platitudes
of that kind never soothe me. They only make me think about the horrible realities of everyday life and the end.

In my opinion, the human body has at least one serious design flaw.

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10 Comments on "Shit In The Pants, Or An Existentialist Journey Into An Untimely Tragedy Involving My Loose Bowels"

An elderly man in the checkout line of a grocery store I once worked in shit his pants and some semi-liquid green poop dripped onto the floor. A stock boy with a mop was summoned to take care of the mess. He did so cheerfully because he thought someone had dropped a jar of strained spinach. He was sickened when he found out what it really was.

That was hilarious. I have MS and have shit my pants many times. It's under control now because of a side effect of a low dose of pain meds that I have to take for God-please-kill-me-now pain. The first shitting of the pants is an existential experience. Especially when you are young and already crippled with an incurable disease. The worst is if you shit while sitting down on the toilet--it tends to land on the seat and then you sit on it and it smears all over the back of your thigh. You want to die as you clean up and you go through the next few days feeling worthless and contemplating suicide. I was lucky enough only to shit my pants at home, except for two incidents which were very discrete. The good news is that after it happened enough, I transcended the humiliation. When you can handle shitting yourself. You can handle anything. The great news it doesn't happen anymore. I am a professional who happens to be a wheelchair user. I still work and love my job, make great money and am happy.

The truth of the matter regarding the people who see you and laugh: they live in cognitive dissonance; which the truth they espouse is, very deep down, is a lie. More honest people acknowledge that they could have been you--easily!
And a number of us have been...

Out of control multitasking and opiate withdrawal. Yawning, sneezing, bowel cramps, and the now extra lively anal sphincter. Sneezing at this time is inevitable but totally unpredictable. Having to sneeze and not shit your pants seems like a very normal and manageable task to most people. But, coming off opiates makes it much harder to not consider suicide. Also, urinating without shitting your pants adds another level of difficulty. But, the shit/sneeze reflex must be respected for a couple days. Also, at some point one gets a false sense of security when passing a couple normal dry farts to ease bowel pain. Then, it happens. The previous dry fart now has escalated to a full on blast of diarrhea and you only have yourself to blame. You have shit your drawers a few times and you feel you deserve a dry run but over confidence got you again. Then, the next time you race to the bathroom only to find the toilet paper dispenser empty. There is more paper in the closet but walking gingerly to get it is a specialized task to say the least. Each time you try to get away with a fart is like Russian Roulette. And, at some point,the cat is going to use your stomach as a launching pad only adds to the excitement and tests your bond with the cat. Just say NO.

Near Rye, Arizona I started feeling sick to my stomach and had to get off the road and into the desert for an emergency bowel movement. Panties and shorts off, I squatted and did a puddle of rectal vomit. When I saw what had come out of my ass. I puked, I hurled and I vomited the big vomit. My guts growled and heaved and I threw up a whole tummy full of indigestion. There was no toilet paper, only rocks and cactus. I had to pull up my panties with nasty do-do in the crack of my ass. I've soiled my panties a few times but that was my worst bowel accident.

Sometimes I get a thrill from having a little "bowel accident" in my jockey shorts. Sometimes it's just a little brown puddle of do-do pie. One time I stood in front of the potty, let it all come out and filled my crack and panties. What wonderful excitement! The bowels are a gift to be enjoyed.

Well, Chief, My wife and I call my jockey shorts my panties, maybe that's incorrect. I sort of adopted her terminology. Years ago I injured my lower back and lost control of my bowels. I've mostly recovered from that but still might not be able to keep a red hot bowel bomb from slipping into my shorts. The one time I let myself fill my shorts/panties, I had already soiled myself before I got to the bathroom. I just said the hell with it and let myself go, instantly filling my shorts/panties. My rectum is as erotically hot as my other private parts, giving me a perhaps unique opportunity to enjoy my autosexuality. (See Havelock Ellis). I love my bowels. My wife loves everything that's in my panties including my sweet ass. Are you horny hot in your panties too? Is that why we like to talk about our do-do?

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